I have been so good at full.
The loud, flooding kind of full.
Somebody-want-me full,
spilling over just to prove without a shadow of a doubt,
That there was something in me worth spilling.
I chased the overflow of heat and held my hands up
till the moment someone looked at me like water,
And in that moment, I became an ocean,
or at least I pretended to be.
The cup was always thirsty.
“More!” I said. Not because more felt particularly good.
Because empty is a room I’ve been locked in before
and I’ll burn the whole house down
before I step foot in there again.
Again, back to me flooding.
I let things pour through me like they were mine,
rich like aged wine,
as if volume was the same as love,
like if the noise got loud enough I’d finally forget
Not enough.
Still here. You can stop.
My cup is quiet now.
I can hold water like a reasonable argument.
I can let someone close
without summoning a tempest to impress them.
I don’t know how to be full yet. But I’m done performing it.